


The Frailty of Genius

by goldvermilion87



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action, Angst, Gen, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldvermilion87/pseuds/goldvermilion87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's the frailty of genius, John:  It needs an audience."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come on, John.  We’re going out”

“Can’t.”

“Why not this time?”

“Because I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?”

“On a date.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I…you can’t just order me…”

“I’m not giving an order, I’m stating a fact.  You are _not_ going on a date.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I happen to know that you broke up with Sarah two weeks ago.”  Sherlock was pleased to see a look of shock on John’s face.  John hadn’t looked shocked since he’d come back from Sarah’s after 3:00 in the morning, exhibiting all the symptoms of a nasty breakup (he’d seen _that_ enough times at Uni).  When he hadn’t said anything about it by the next morning, Sherlock had decided to keep his deduction to himself to produce with a flourish at a time like this. 

“Well, maybe I’ve got another girlfriend.”

“No, you haven’t.  If you had, you wouldn’t have said ‘maybe’ just now, and you wouldn’t be going out at 2 AM.”  He wished the explanation had been more complex.  He hadn’t heard a “fascinating” or “that’s incredible” from John since the breakup either.

Then John’s face took on a hardness he did not remember ever seeing.  He ran through his memory bank of facial expressions.  Nothing. 

“You know, Sherlock, where I go is really none of your business.  We are both adults.  At least I am.  So, I’m off.”

There was little point in chasing him.  Besides, he could do this himself.  He had gone on many night excursions alone before he met John.

 

<|><|><|><|><|><|><|> 

 

Two weeks later he was bored.  He couldn’t understand why he should be bored, since Lestrade had called him in for several not uninteresting cases.  Besides, when he was at home he had the mystery of John. 

But the cases did not hold his interest.  He remembered similar cases a year or so ago that had interested him.  It had given him pleasure and a sense of purpose to see the pieces of the puzzles come together in his head.  Now?  Nothing.  He’d even talked his way out of a hostage situation a day earlier.  He’d deduced so much in five minutes about his captor’s weaknesses that he had been able to convince him hand over his gun within fifteen.  That should have given him a high for at least a few hours…but he’d felt bored by the time he’d handed the gun to Lestrade. 

Besides, the mystery of John was not…good.  John told him where he went and what he did with his time, and he could see for himself that John was telling the truth.  Always.  The mystery was why he refused to spend his time with Sherlock anymore….and why his face still had that hard look.

Then one morning everything changed again.  John didn’t go out anymore.  He just sat in his armchair, watching telly.  Not responding to it.  Not enjoying it.  Just watching. 

It was a change for the better for about fifteen minutes.  Sherlock seized the opportunity to think aloud to an audience, instead of an empty chair with a Union Jack pillow on it.  After fifteen minutes, when John had not taken his eyes off _Judge Judy_ even once, not to mention hadn’t responded verbally to anything he said, he flounced out of his chair and curled up on the couch…but even that didn’t get any reaction.

He fussed at this unresponsive John for about twenty four hours.  Then he started to watch him closely.

Sherlock had spent enough time with John to know how his mind worked—what he did and did not care about—and the case he had just solved would please John—make John proud of him.

“I figured out who murdered that woman, and exonerated her dead brother this morning.”

Nothing.

“Lestrade thought the brother was the murderer, because the gun that shot her belonged to him, and was on his person when they fished his body out of the river.  He was wrong, as usual.  I found bits of an algae that was obviously not from the Thames in his pocket.  A little research showed it to be native to the south of France.  So he was drowned elsewhere and then deposited in the Thames.”

No reaction.

“Clearly that the man had been drowned in France, at the same time that his sister was murdered here in London with his gun.  Only a criminal organization could create such an elaborate cover up.”

Still nothing.  It really was boring to repeat his own deductions in simple enough terms for someone like John Watson to understand if he wasn’t going to get any type of response.  He would make one more effort.  He focused all his powers of observation on the man lounging in his chair, watching daytime telly with glazed eyes.

"She had been trying to escape a trafficking ring.  Using my information, Lestrade was able to track down the ring, and rescue 12 girls.”

The forefinger of John’s right hand tapped once on the remote.

“Two of them were children.”

Aha!  John continued to slouch in his chair and stare ahead, but he was blinking more rapidly than he had been a minute earlier—a sure sign that he was struggling with some sort of emotion.  Still, he refused to talk. 

That was too much for Sherlock. 

“Well, aren’t you going to say something, John?  I just singlehandedly restored a dead man’s reputation, and saved twelve people, including two kids, from sexual slavery.  You aren’t going to congratulate me?”

“Why should I?”

“Because only I could have figured it out, and because lives were saved.  You’re always on about saving lives.  This time I saved some—saved twelve.  So why aren’t you interested?”

“I’m glad those girls were saved, Sherlock.  I don’t need to dance around the flat to prove it.”

John still wasn’t looking at him, but any sort of conversation was a distinct improvement.

“Never mind that then.  It’s just that you’re acting differently…Still...What I meant to say is that I have some possible leads to more of the same.  I’m going to try to follow them.  Will you come too?”

“Why should I?”

“I already told you once:  I am lost without my blogger.  And if we should stumble across people who are hurt, you would be much more useful than…my skull!”  Sherlock grinned at John.  He knew that bringing up old private jokes was an effective way to communicate with friends.  They built camaraderie, and John had seemed to appreciate them in the past.

“Yes.”  When John finally did turn to him, his face was no longer blank, but showed anger and frustration…and maybe something else that Sherlock couldn’t immediately identify, but he had to listen, and those two emotions were enough to be going on.  “Yes, I know you’re lost without me.  And I’m _flattered_ , of course, that you prefer me to your skull.  That’s all that this is about, Sherlock, isn’t it?  You need someone to listen.  You need someone to do your dirty work.  You need to make use of me.”

“Well, you’re no use to me at all like this.”

“I’m sorry.  Standing up to you makes me useless, does it? Maybe you should hire a maid.  Or maybe I should just make a recording, Sherlock.  I’ll say ‘cool!’ ‘wow!’ ‘fascinating!’ ‘remarkable!’ ‘I’m about to wet myself with excitement because you’re so bloody brilliant!’  That’d be enough.  You could put it on an iPod, and play it while you think out loud.  You could even put a speaker under your precious skull and pretend it’s worshipping the ground you walk on.  But you won’t get any worship from me anymore.  I’m sick of this.  So sick of this.  I’m leaving now!”

And he stomped out without even picking up his jacket.

For a few minutes Sherlock just sat and processed what had happened. 

John was angry with him.  That much was obvious.  John was purportedly angry at him for what he had said.  He was not angry until Sherlock had asked him to talk, and was most angry when he had said “you’re no use to me.”  The reaction was unwarranted by the actual words.  Sherlock always spoke his thoughts to John, and since he was so much cleverer than John could ever hope to be, at times his thoughts were not complimentary.  But he was interested in facts.  And John knew that.  John was not able to distance himself from emotion the way Sherlock was, but they both understood that. 

Of course, John did not think that Sherlock was incapable of emotion.  He had convinced himself that the multiple doctors who diagnosed him as a sociopath were wrong (as if he were a specialist in psychiatry!) and had developed an annoying habit of telling him off for “pretending” not to feel anything.

Well, John was right, maybe.  To a degree.  Sherlock was far too intelligent to lie to himself, and he could no longer deny that he felt…something.  At least he knew that he did not “keep John around” for his usefulness alone.  But he had thought John knew that!

Obviously he was worse at reading emotions—or at least at reading John—than he originally believed.

And yet, something had been indefinably “not-good” before Sherlock even started talking.  He had begun speaking in reaction to that not-good-ness, now that he thought about it. 

It was definitely a three patch problem.

 

<|><|><|><|><|><|><|> 

 

About an hour later he had gotten nowhere.  He heard Mrs. Hudson open the front door.

“MRS. HUDSON!  IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”

She trotted up the stairs and was panting when she stepped in.  “What is it, dear?  What happened?  And where’s the doctor?”

“That, Mrs. Hudson, is the emergency.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No, no, Mrs. Hudson.  He’s just gone out.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, then.  My heart’s not as strong as it used to be.”

“This _is_ an emergency.  I need to know what is wrong with John, and I need to find out right away, because if I have not completely failed in my estimation of him, he will be back within the hour, and I need to make sure that I have a plan of attack before then.”

“Plan of attack?  What are…”

“John has hardly spoken to me for several weeks.  He no longer goes on cases with me.  He is angered by the slightest thing I say.  It used to take a lot of irritation to send him out of the house even when he’d had a particularly trying day—and this morning he’s only sat and watched telly, so I know nothing trying could have happened.”  He went on to recount his whole, nearly one-sided conversation to Mrs. Hudson.

“Well, dear. I don’t see that it’s any great mystery.  He obviously feels that you don’t appreciate him for himself.  That you just want him to do things for you and compliment you.  He thinks that you like him for what he does, not who he is.  I remember my friend Jane had the same problem with her husband.  It was…oh, let me see…they must have married for…”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, but the things he does are part of who he is.  How can he complain about that?”

“Because, Sherlock.  You said he was useless to you.  He probably thought you meant that unless he was useful, you wouldn’t care.”

This was beginning to sound ridiculous.  Of course John was different if he was useless, but he wasn’t.  The situation in which he was useless was so hypothetical as to be unworthy of consideration.  Still, there was no shame in admitting that emotions were not his area.  Mrs. Hudson was a woman, and therefore an expert on the subject.  He would try one more question.

“Well then, Mrs. Hudson, what should I do?”

“I think you should just talk to him about anything but your work.  Tell him you care.  Do nice things for him.  Maybe get him flowers to say ‘sorry’.  Maybe even take him out to a very nice restaurant.  That’s what my Sam used to do in the old days, before the fighting got too bad.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

"Any time, love.  Happy to help.”

After she left, he thought about it.  Flowers seemed like an odd thing to give a flatmate, but if that’s what friends did when they had a row, there was no reason why he shouldn’t give it a try.  Going out to a nice restaurant seemed too risky, given John’s recent volatile behavior, but he would order some very nice take away, and perhaps even…he looked at the kitchen…well…there wasn’t time to clean the kitchen before John got back...  The take way would have to do.  And there was just enough time to call and order those flowers.

“Flower Station!

“I would like to order flowers.”

“Yes, sir.  What kind would you like?”

She was clearly a young woman in her 20s.  Never taken her A levels.  Unqualified for any skill-oriented job.  He hated to do this, but then again, he was out of his depth. 

“The flowers are meant to express an apology.  What kind should I get?”

He could hear the grin through her words.  “How bad was it?”

He gritted his teeth.  “I don’t know.”

“Well, then, I’d say better safe than sorry.  We will assume it was very bad.  How about our ‘Majestic Reds?’”[[i]](../javascripts/tiny_mce/plugins/paste/pasteword.htm?1294776880#_edn1)

 Sherlock decided that wasn’t a bad way to go.  And as he knew that the cab he saw turning onto Baker Street was carrying John, he had to hurry.  “Yes, yes.  Whatever flowers would be best for a very big apology.  I want them in fifteen minutes.”

“What?”

“Fifteen minutes.  Your website says you deliver same day for free anywhere in London.”

“Well, not in fifteen minutes.”

“What if I paid for delivery.”

“We don’t really do that…”

“I’ll pay you fifty pounds.”

 “Okay, then…so fifty-nine pounds for the flowers and then fifty for me at the door?”

Sherlock knew that those flowers could not cost the shop even a fraction of that price.  He hated to be swindled, but there was nothing for it.

“Fine.”

“Can I have your card number?”

Sherlock finished just as John walked in the door.  John looked a less furious than he had before he left, but he did not look better.  He just looked apathetic. 

Still, Sherlock was determined to end this unpleasantness, even (he hated the thought) if it meant that he would not ever find out why John had gotten angry to begin with. 

 _Talk to him, tell him I care, get flowers, dinner._

Well, the flowers were taken care of.  Talking would be a good start.

“Where have you been, John?” he asked in his most pleasant voice.

John was meandering through the kitchen.  He stopped for a moment and shook his head before turning to snap.  “What business is it of yours?  I wasn’t getting milk, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

 _This is off to a good start_.  Sherlock smiled grimly.  Something else, then?  He looked around the flat for inspiration, then thought about what John had just said.  Milk was something.

“Do we need more milk?”

“Yes, Sherlock.  You might have noticed if you ever actually got the shopping yourself.  And by the way, don’t even _think_ about asking me to make tea!”

It probably was a good thing John said that, Sherlock thought, because he almost had…  Clearly, milk was a bad topic. 

“Any more locum work?”

“No, Sherlock.  Nothing.  Do you think I’d just sit and watch telly all day if I had a job?”

This was not getting him anywhere.  Well, until the flowers came (and he sincerely hoped that Mrs. Hudson knew what she was talking about) he could only try for step two.

“John.  You do know that I care, right?”

“What?” John looked puzzled.

“I care about you, not just about what you are able to do to help me.  Even though, of course, those things are part of you, so you shouldn’t mind that I appreciate your helpfulness.  But I…” He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “…I care about you as a person, too.  You could not be replaced with…well with a maid and a recording as you suggested earlier, because they would not be you. “

John’s face had moved from shocked to pleased (Sherlock was nearly certain) in a few seconds, and then his face twisted up into…well, Sherlock hoped it wasn’t the prelude to crying, because that did not seem like the John he knew at all…but John had turned his back, his shoulders  tensed, and almost shaking for a few moments.  When he faced Sherlock again, he wore the blank expression.

Sherlock was completely bewildered.  But fortunately the girl from the flower shop chose that moment to ring the doorbell, so he shot down the stairs.  He came back into the room and shoved the enormous armful of flowers into John’s face.  John looked at them for a minute before putting them down and staring at them.

“Sherlock, what…”

“For you, from me.”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Hudson said…”

“He…he talked to Mrs. Hudson…” John cut himself off with a loud, and very long, hysterical laugh.  When he had sobered down, he looked Sherlock in the eye.  “I wouldn’t go to Mrs. Hudson for advice on things like this, Sherlock.  She’s a nice woman, but she hasn’t got the right idea about us, and you’re too blind to see it.  The flowers were a stupid, stupid idea.  You would only get flowers if I were your boyfriend.  And you must never have noticed, or maybe you deleted it from your hard drive as not important, but I have allergies.  So, get rid of them!  Or…no…don’t worry about it.  Because I can’t do this anymore.  I’m going up now to pack my things.  I cannot stay in the flat with you any longer and keep a shred of sanity. “

He stomped out of the room and up the stairs, and really did start packing from the sound of it.  Sherlock listened for the sounds of his anger petering out—the creak of the bedsprings when he sat on the bed, or the thump of slowly pacing feet.  But he never heard them, and about an hour later, John came down the stairs dragging a very large suitcase.  Sherlock knew that everything John owned was in it. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.  I’ll thank you not to follow me.  Don’t bother to send texts in the middle of the night asking me to join you at a crime scene or pick up bread or do anything else to make your job easier.  I have to go.  I have to go now…”  And just before he turned there was a crack in the mask.  But Sherlock was too disgusted to worry about it anymore.  He had just humiliated himself by asking Mrs. Hudson and that girl at the flower shop for advice, and it had only made John laugh at him—laugh at him!—because he had not done the right thing.  Well, he had tried!

Besides, there was no need to follow John right now.  Mycroft most certainly had him under surveillance.  John would be back in the next day or two.  If he wasn’t, Mycroft would tell him where to look. 

 

<|><|><|><|><|><|><|>

 

John did not show up in the next day or two.  Sherlock did text him…more than once or twice:  anytime he had a particularly dangerous job…or anytime he wanted to try an idea on someone…and once when he was at his computer and wanted a cup of tea and forgot that John wasn’t in the flat. 

On the third day he pulled Lestrade aside when he was sure none of the other police were within earshot, and tried to get some advice from him.  Lestrade did not want to chat the way that Mrs. Hudson did, but Sherlock felt (and that was the best word to describe it) that Lestrade’s advice was probably better:

"It’s only natural, Sherlock.  You’re childish and selfish, and you irritate all of us.  It’s no wonder it’s gotten too much for John.  But he’s your friend—he’ll come back.  If the Greenwich pips case didn’t send him packing, nothing else will.  Just wait.”

Waiting, however, was boring.  Very boring. 

And probably not worth it.  He had grown lazy—slipped into a habit of caring.  But he was Sherlock Holmes, the genius among idiots.  He had broken a drug habit.  He had broken a smoking habit.  He would easily break this habit as well.

He began to focus his mind on his problems—giving himself no rest, attending to every minute detail when he walked the streets, forcing himself not to look more closely whenever he saw a short man with graying hair in the distance.  He did not think of John very often at all.

And yet, when his brother called about a week later to tell him that John had suddenly disappeared, he observed first hand that some habits do die hard.

 

* * *

[[i]](../javascripts/tiny_mce/plugins/paste/pasteword.htm?1294776880#_ednref1) This is a real bouquet from a real flowershop about two blocks from 221B Baker Street. The most expensive of the “I’m Sorry” collection. Hehe.  <http://www.flowerstation.co.uk/flowers/majestic-reds.html>


	2. Chapter 2

_Why? Why? Why?_

John couldn’t stop asking himself. He thought back to the first twenty four hours after he met Sherlock Holmes. He’d said Lestrade knew Holmes better than he did, and then Lestrade said something that stuck with him: “I’ve known him for five years, and no I don’t.”  

But somehow, in one year, he’d got to know Sherlock Holmes. The brilliant, irritating, self-proclaimed “high-functioning sociopath” was his friend. In fact, he had begun to hope that Lestrade’s prediction had come true—that the great mind was becoming a good man. 

What would this do to him?

And what was he doing to himself? Forcing that fight and then breakup with Sarah had been just as hard on him as on her. He wasn’t sure yet that he wanted to marry her, but she was one of the first friends he’d made since he’d come back from Afghanistan—one of the only three, if the strange camaraderie he and Lestrade shared counted as friendship, and one of the only two if it didn’t—and whatever happened with their romance, he had promised himself he’d never repay her kindness with something like this. Now he had broken that promise.

Still, as strange as it seemed, he was most worried about Sherlock. 

Sarah was a capable, intelligent, beautiful woman. She would hate him, most likely. And he didn’t like to think that she’d hate him unjustly for the rest of her life. But she would move on. Find someone else. 

John was hurting himself, but he’d come home from Afghanistan a broken man already. 

But when he thought of what he was about to do to Sherlock, he just put his head in his hands, and tried to forget the pain of self-loathing in the pain of the headache that was coming on. He wouldn’t take anything for it when he got home. It would be a good distraction—maybe it would make his mind go blank. Was this what Sherlock felt like all the time? If it was, he thought he might begin to understand the temptation of drugs. 

What would Sherlock say to him if he knew? But then, he couldn’t know. That was the point. Would he think he was more of an idiot than ever?  _Fool me once_ —he remembered his mother reciting the old proverb to him when he was a kid— _shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me_. 

But then, Moriarty hadn’t really fooled him. It wasn’t like last time when he’d followed the instructions in a text from “SH” and walked down that dark street…he should have noticed that wasn’t Sherlock’s number…but he didn’t, and Moriarty’s men had cornered him, and knocked him out cold…and he’d woken up in that vest… 

This time he’d a message from a blocked number, and the threat was quite clear. He got a video of Sarah preparing dinner in her apartment with a timestamp from just moments earlier. When she turned around to place the roast in the oven, she couldn’t see the little red laser pointed at the back of her head. The short video was followed by a text: Walk to corner bakery. Any funny business and she dies. 

He walked into the ordinary looking bakery. Moriarty must have had some sort of hold on the proprietor, because the man at the counter just jerked his head towards the “employees only” entrance.   John pulled himself up, marched in, and forced himself not to look surprised when a tall thug put a gun to his forehead, and James Moriarty grinned at him. 

“What do you want from me this time, Mr. Moriarty? You know I’m not afraid to die!”

“Oh, I know that, Johnny boy, I know! But I know what you _are_ afraid of.”

Of course he did. John glared at him.

“You never have been very communicative have you, John? No? Or maybe you used to be, but you’ve just gotten practice listening to our dear friend Sherlock. He doesn’t usually let you get a word in edgewise, does he? Must be bloody boring, listening to him run on like that.”

John just stared mulishly.

“I said, must be bloody boring. Don’t you agree?” Moriarty stepped forward threateningly with the grin wiped off his face, and the man beside him cocked the gun.

“Maybe. Sometimes.”

“That’s better. We have to admit how we feel, John. It’s the only healthy thing to do. Bottling up all that emotion—it’s terrible for you. You should know, you’re a doctor!” 

Moriarty pulled a chair out from behind the desk and sat in front of him, like a therapist. 

“Now John. What else is troubling you? Anything else that the nasty Sherlock Holmes is doing to make your life miserable?”

John just looked at his feet.

“So quiet, Johnny boy? Well, then, I’ll tell you. He doesn’t treat you like a friend most of the time. He just assumes you’re there to wait on him hand and foot. He expects you to follow him to hell and back at a moment’s notice, but he hasn’t thanked you above three times since you first met him. He thinks you’re weak and pathetic for needing your little girlfriend, and he doesn’t care if you know it. But don’t worry, we’ll fix that problem soon enough.”

John’s eyes widened.

“No, not that way. Don’t worry. Be patient, my dear boy. Be patient. Where was I? Oh yes, ways in which Sherlock hurts you. Really it all boils down to one thing: He doesn’t care about you at all. Isn’t that right Johnny? Nope. He cares about what you can give him—fawing adoration or support in a fight—the same things that anyone’s pet can give really. You’re his puppy dog, aren’t you? And you hate it?”

John wasn’t sure who he hated more:  Moriarty for saying what he did, or himself for agreeing, even a little bit. He knew it wasn’t completely true. Sherlock was his friend, but he did not always know how to show it. Sherlock hadn’t had any idea, John thought, until Moriarty forced him to. Moriarty knew that too, though, didn’t he? 

 “Yes. Yes, Johnny. You’re a smart doggie, aren’t you? Sherlock is no fun anymore. Still, I don’t want to stop him, yet. I just want to slow him down, so we can play again. And you are going to help me do that. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“First, because one of my men has little miss Sawyer in his sights as we speak. Don’t worry. She’ll get off scot free if you do as I say. But you’ll hear me out first. Second, because I have my eye on Sherlock as well.” He walked over to the desk and turned on the screen of the computer behind him. 

The picture was a live feed from the living room at Baker Street. Sherlock was lounging in his chair with his eyes closed, and his violin on his shoulder, scraping away as usual. He could tell where the camera must be based on the angle. “The picture!”  

“Yes. It was so easy to bribe the framers to let us make some alterations.”

It was over the spray painted smile and the gunshot holes in the wall. Sherlock had refused to let Mrs. Hudson patch it up, and Mrs. Hudson had refused to let it be entirely, so they had compromised on a picture—one that Mrs. Hudson would choose. 

It was a pretty landscape that clashed horribly with the picture of a skull, but it could have been worse. John didn’t suppose that Sherlock regularly swept the room for bugs. It put John in mind of _1984_ , but he didn’t suppose Sherlock had read that, or if he had he had probably deleted it from his mind—it being written in response to a now-defunct regime and all. 

“So you see, John, I can watch everything that goes on in that room.  Think how easy it would be to set up a sniper in one of the houses opposite, and when Sherlock was staring out the window, or lying on the couch, or doing any other ridiculous thing, feeling perfectly safe in his own home, one crook of my sniper’s finger and WHOOSH! He’s dead. You don’t want that to happen, now do you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, this is what you’ll do. You’ll stop being his friend.   I said I would burn the heart out of him, and I also said I don’t get my hands dirty. You know I don’t lie—not unless it’s convenient. So you are going to do it for me. You will remember the things I told you. It shouldn’t be too hard, because it’s true. He doesn’t appreciate you. He cares. Oh, yes. I know that he does. But he doesn’t ever let you know it.  You’ll remember that, Johnny boy, or he dies. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” John said softly.

“And one more thing. You care about this…this Sarah Sawyer, don’t you?”

John flinched involuntarily.

“Well, you’ll make sure she has no idea. You’ll break up with her tonight. Give me your wallet.”

John handed it over. Moriarty took out a ten pound note, and then handed the rest back with a handful of change. “You just bought this chocolate cake.” He handed him a pastry box. “You were supposed to bring the dessert, I believe? Well, that is it. You’ve paid for it. Oh, don’t worry. There is nothing wrong with it. You’ll have to trust me on this one. But I don’t want his nosey brother on to me again. Anyway, as I was saying, you will break it off with her tonight and that will be the end of it. If you do that, she will be safe. I promise on my honor as a gentleman.”

John looked his incredulity.

“I know, I know. But it’s all you have to go on, isn’t it? And remember, John. I have that room bugged, and I may have more cameras in your flat. If I see you trying to hint what is going on, it will be the end. Do you understand?”

John nodded his head, and stalked out the door.

And now he had broken up with Sarah, and was on his way home…or on his way to the flat that had been home.

<|><|><|><|><|>

The first week or so had been unbearable. Sherlock didn’t even notice that he had broken up with Sarah. He’d thought Sherlock would, and even though he didn’t expect much sympathy, he felt that just an acknowledgment would have been something. And then Sherlock didn’t even notice that he’d stopped doing little things like making tea, or running errands. John kept reminding himself of that, so that when everything got harder, he would play his part convincingly enough for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wasn’t good with emotion, though, so this would be much easier than anything else Moriarty might have asked him to do. If Moriarty had asked him to do something criminal, Sherlock would know the who what why when and where the moment he opened the door. But pretending to be angry or hurt—that would take Sherlock a bit longer to see through. 

By the end of the second week, he didn’t think he could do it any longer.

“Come on, John. We’re going out”

“Can’t.”

“Why not this time?”

“Because I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?”

“On a date.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I…you can’t just order me…”

“I’m not giving an order, I’m stating a fact. You are _not_ going on a date.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I happen to know that you broke up with Sarah two weeks ago.” Sherlock _had_ noticed. He just hadn’t said anything. And of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t know how to deal with situations like that. 

 “Well, maybe I’ve got another girlfriend.” He cringed. He knew he sounded pathetic.

“No, you haven’t. If you had, you would not have said ‘maybe’ just now, and you wouldn’t be going out at 2 AM. “

Yes…even he could have explained that. He would have to pretend to be angry and leave the house. 

“You know, Sherlock, where I go is really none of your business. We are both adults. At least I am. So, I’m off.”

He stormed out and found the nearest pub. He ordered a beer and nursed it for a while, unable to completely ignore his surroundings, in the fear that Moriarty or one of his people would make contact with him. He had to make his plan for the next few weeks. He couldn’t just stay in the flat and watch Sherlock becoming annoyed, and even (though he probably wouldn’t recognize it) hurt by John’s refusal to work with him. When he had made a list of places where he could spend his time whenever Sherlock was in the flat and he could not just lock himself in his bedroom, he went back. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Sherlock had definitely gone out, and went up to his own room to sleep.

<|><|><|><|><|>

A few more days of refusing Sherlock any help or encouragement, while keeping his face as blank as he possibly could, and he was beginning to wonder if he could keep up the charade any longer before Sherlock saw through it. Sherlock knew something was wrong, but just didn’t know what. John’s only relief was leaving the house so that he didn’t have to watch his flatmate watching him, and analyzing his behavior. 

Until he got a text on his phone directing him to a specific used book shop, and Moriarty.

“Well, Johnny boy. Enjoying yourself? Giving Sherlock a bit of his own back?”

“You know I’m not, so why don’t you just tell me what you want and go!”

“My, my, but we are defiant today. I’ll let you go in a moment. But I want you to enjoy yourself more. You’re not really keeping up your side of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The deal I made with you—about not killing Sherlock.”

“I think of it as blackmail.”

“Well, call it what you like. You’re not keeping up your side of the bargain. You’re just leaving him alone. Coming up with excuses. I want your indifference to be obvious at all times. Do you understand me?”

“No.”

“Let me be a bit clearer: You are not going to leave the flat unless absolutely necessary. You will remain in your sitting room whenever Sherlock is there, but you will make absolutely clear that you are not interested in him or his work. Just keep reminding yourself of all the things I told you when we last had a little chat. I’m sure you can do it. Because I’ve still got an eye on him, John. Ciao.”

And he was sent out of the store, back to Baker Street.

<|><|><|><|><|>

The first day he managed to focus on the telly. Sherlock had a tantrum, but that was not unusual. Besides, it was irritating.

The next day, though, he could practically feel Sherlock thinking in the chair across from him. When Sherlock started to talk, he tuned it out as well as he could. Tried to convince himself that he was interested in _Judge Judy_.   Sherlock was just trying to impress him with his deductive abilities again. But then he realized there was more to it when he heard something about breaking up a trafficking ring, and rescuing 12 women. Sherlock was trying to get him to see that he cared about people. That he was helping people. And then he heard that Sherlock had managed to save two girls. He wanted so badly to know if they were okay. To congratulate his friend for a job well done. To encourage and admire. But he couldn’t. He had to pretend he didn’t care. He _had_ to.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something, John? I just singlehandedly restored a dead man’s reputation, and saved twelve people, including two kids, from sexual slavery. You aren’t going to congratulate me?”

“Why should I?”

“Because only I could have figured it out, and because lives were saved. You’re always on about saving lives. This time I saved some—saved twelve. So why aren’t you interested?”

 “I’m glad those girls were saved, Sherlock. I don’t need to dance around the flat to prove it.”

“Never mind that then. It’s just that you’re acting differently. Still. What I meant to say is that I have some possible leads to more of the same. I’m going to try to follow them. Will you come too?”

We wanted to go!

“Why should I?”

“I already told you once: I am lost without my blogger. And if we should stumble across people who are hurt, you would be much more useful than…my skull!” 

“Yes.” And suddenly, he managed to direct his anger at Sherlock. Maybe Moriarty was right. Maybe Sherlock really did only want to use him. “Yes, I know you’re lost without me. And I’m _flattered_ , of course, that you prefer me to your skull. That’s all that this is about, Sherlock, isn’t it? You need someone to listen. You need someone to do your dirty work. You need to make use of me.”

“Well, you’re no use to me at all like this.”

“I’m sorry. Standing up to you makes me useless, does it? Maybe you should hire a maid. Or maybe I should just make a recording, Sherlock. I’ll say ‘cool!’ ‘wow!’ ‘fascinating!’ ‘remarkable!’ ‘I’m about to wet myself with excitement because you’re so bloody brilliant!’ That’d be enough. You could put it on an iPod, and play it while you think out loud. You could even put a speaker under your precious skull and pretend it’s worshipping the ground you walk on. But you won’t get any worship from me anymore.” The look of confusion on Sherlock’s face was softening him again. He had to get out. “I’m sick of this. So sick of this. I’m leaving now!”

He ran out onto the sidewalk and walked down Baker Street. He didn’t have any particular destination in mind. Just to walk. To clear his mind. To slow down his emotions so he could go back to the flat and sit calmly while Sherlock solved mysteries without him. 

He walked for about an hour before he got cold. Then he looked for a taxi to drive him home. It was rush hour, and took a bit longer than usual. He hoped against hope that Sherlock would be having a tantrum, or out on a case when he got back. 

No such luck. He was afraid, when he saw Sherlock pocket his phone, that he would invite him on a case and he would be forced to refuse again. 

“Where have you been, John?” 

It was his wheedling voice. John told himself it was insincere. “What business is it of yours? I wasn’t getting milk, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“Do we need more milk?”

“Yes, Sherlock. You might have noticed if you ever actually got anything for yourself. And by the way, don’t even _think_ about asking me to make tea!”

 “Any more locum work?”

Sherlock was trying so hard! 

“No, Sherlock. Nothing. Do you think I’d just sit and watch telly all day if I had a job?”

 “John. You do know that I care, right?” 

John stopped pacing around in the kitchen. What _had_ Sherlock just said? “What?”

“I care about you, not just about what you are able to do to help me. Even though, of course, those things are part of you, so you shouldn’t mind that I appreciate your helpfulness. But I…I care about you as a person, too. You could not be replaced with…well with a maid and a recording as you suggested earlier, because they would not be you. “

He was shocked, and so pleased that Sherlock had gotten up the nerve to tell him that he cared, he almost wanted to cry. But he was a grown man and would never do that in front of Sherlock. This…this made pretending that Sherlock didn’t care…nearly impossible. When he thought of how much effort it must have taken for Sherlock to say that!   

And then Sherlock came in with the most absurdly large bouquet of flowers he’d ever seen in his life.

“Sherlock, what…”

“For you, from me.”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Hudson said…”

“He…he talked to Mrs. Hudson…” 

It was not the first time Sherlock had innocently acted on advice that Mrs. Hudson had given him on the assumption that they were a couple. There was the time that Sherlock had locked John out of his own bedroom when Mrs. Hudson had suggested he make him sleep on the couch.[i] Granted, it was very irritating, and probably successful, from Sherlock’s point of view. But at the time John had wondered if Sherlock wasn’t just playing dumb to irritate him even more. Now he was sure he wasn’t. And the generosity added to the complete cluelessness was almost heartbreaking.

 And then the humor of the situation added itself to the horror, and he realized he was cackling like a madman…and he couldn’t stop. Finally he decided that he couldn’t keep up this show for Moriarty any longer. He would have to go to Moriarty: find him, and tell him that he’d followed his directions, but he couldn’t stay in the flat and do this to his friend any more. Perhaps Moriarty would consider his leaving Sherlock alone punishment enough? Surely it was.   And he wondered—what kind of a punishment was it? What would this do to Sherlock? Would it burn, or would this just cauterize his emotions? No time to think about it now. He just had to get out. 

“I wouldn’t go to Mrs. Hudson for advice in things like this, Sherlock. She’s a nice woman, but she hasn’t got the right idea about us, and you’re too blind to see it. The flowers were a stupid, stupid idea. You would only get flowers if I were your boyfriend. And you must never have noticed, or maybe you deleted it from your hard drive as not important, but I have allergies. So, get rid of them! Or…no…don’t worry about it. Because I can’t do this anymore. I’m going up now to pack my things. I cannot stay in the flat with you any longer and keep a shred of sanity. “

He stomped up the stairs and started pulling everything he had out of his chest of drawers. He would talk to Moriarty, and convince him this was the only way to hurt Sherlock.   And then he would find a way to get in touch with Mycroft safely if it was the last thing he did. He could not kill Sherlock, and at the same time he could not continue hurting him day in and day out. He just had to keep up the pretense for a few minutes after he packed up his room…the few clothes and odds and ends that he had—they all fit into one large suitcase. At least it wouldn’t be hard to just get a room in a hotel.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. I’ll thank you not to follow me.  Don’t bother to send texts in the middle of the night asking me to join you at a crime scene or pick up bread or do anything else to make your job easier.   I have to go. I have to go now…”

He was afraid Sherlock might have seen the last second in which he let his anguish show on his face. But he ran out and caught a taxi that was driving down the road.

<|><|><|><|><|>

 

Once he had checked into the hotel, all he really wanted was to lie down and sleep. But instead he knew he had to try to find Moriarty and make absolutely certain that he would not kill Sherlock for this.   If Moriarty said he had to go back, then he would, and he would continue to plot a way to inform Mycroft that he was a hostage at Baker Street.   Mycroft would figure something out. 

Finding Moriarty, he thought, could not be that hard. He would wander around London on foot, and wait for a summons. 

But he did not get one. For days he wandered aimlessly. As he walked he tried to think out some sort of plan. If only he were clever like Sherlock. Then he might…come up with some signal to give at traffic cameras. But he couldn’t think of anything that Moriarty wouldn’t notice as well. And he was terrible with codes. He didn’t even remember Morse code, though he knew he learned it as a little boy And even if he could remember some marvelous codes that Sherlock had cracked, he couldn’t use any, because Moriarty would know who he was trying to contact, and probably wouldn’t care much what he was saying to him.

He watched the papers anxiously, afraid to see something about a gruesome murder on Baker Street. He hoped against hope to catch some glimpse of Sherlock in the streets. He thought he did once, but then he walked away as quickly as he could. 

Finally after a week and a half of waiting, he got another text from Moriarty. This time he was to meander towards a specific Chinese place and go in. He prepared his arguments for Moriarty as he walked. Tried to think of a way to not sound like a desperate man. He walked in and looked to the owner, who, he was not surprised, pointed him to the “employees only” door. When he opened the door it was dark, but he was jerked in, and before he could cry out, a hand went over his mouth, and there was a sharp blow to his head, and everything went black.

 

  


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[i]  
  
  
  
Yes, that is Shameless Self Promotion

  


  


  


  


  



	3. Chapter 3

When John woke up, he was duct-taped to a chair in a small room. His head ached. There was no one else in the room.   He wished he could just close his eyes and go back to sleep, but instead he tried to loosen one of his hands until someone walked in.

“Ah, John! So nice to see you again. It’s been far too long.”

John glared at Moriarty.

“Well, I see you’ve left Baker Street. How sad for Sherlock. He must be lost without you to cook and clean.” He put on an exaggerated pout. “Still…I can use you, even if he can’t anymore, so don’t worry: You’ll be useful for the rest of your life—however long or short that might be. Anyway, Johnny boy, I’ve come up with something special for you…something sort of…literary. I thought you might appreciate it.”

John closed his eyes, as if that would make it all just go away.

“Don’t you want to know about my brilliant little plan? I think of these things myself, you know. Sherlock isn’t the only person who likes to be groveled to.”

It was at that moment that John realized he knew—absolutely and positively knew, to the core of his being—that Sherlock was not just using him. They helped each other. The first thing Sherlock had done upon meeting him was to save him from himself—his loneliness, and his boredom, and his psychosomatic limp. Yes, Sherlock needed an audience, but John wasn’t just an audience—he was a friend. And, no matter what situation they were in, Sherlock, with all his arrogance and self-confidence, had always looked after him. 

And he realized something else: That little seed of doubt Moriarty had planted in his mind had grown greater than he realized. It had made him bitter, and had kept him from figuring out the solution to his problem. It was not his fear for Sherlock’s life that had paralyzed him over the past month, it was the unacknowledged fear that Sherlock did not want him in that life. He had not really been trying to end this bizarre hostage situation. If he had truly believed in Sherlock, he would have solved the problem earlier. He would not have given up so easily.

 “Hello-o-o! Johnny! You listening? I am about to reveal to you My Great Plan. You’ve heard this poem, right?:

 _Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice._

“Well, I’ve always had a special place in my heart for it, and now so will you. So will Sherlock, come to think of it.”

“Well, aren’t we lucky!”

“Feeling saucy, eh? Well, we’ve tried fire on you, and that nosey brother of Sherlock’s kept you alive. This is your second chance to perish. Or, I should say, my second chance to make you perish. So ice it is. What do you say? Poetic justice?”

John just glared at him. 

“Well, my pet, just to be safe…” and Moriarty signaled to one of the thugs who put a sack over John’s head again. He felt a gun at the back of his neck, and the duct tape was (rather painfully) ripped off. His hands were quickly handcuffed behind him, and he was frog-marched off to a car. 

He thought they must have been in the car for about twenty-five minutes when it stopped and he was dragged out. When the bag was finally lifted from his head, he was at the back of a school canteen, looking at a small walk-in freezer. Moriarty stood by the opened door. 

“See? Walk-in freezer with no ventilation.   Negative twenty degrees Celsius. This model is guaranteed to cause discomfort to a man in a winter parka within minutes. But wait! There’s more!   (A modification of my own, you know, John—Make it a bit more fun, and less time consuming.) This freezer comes equipped with dry ice! Accelerating time of death by a factor of eight!”

John’s stomach was churning, but he tried to look calm.

“Now, John, do be a good boy and get in. I really am in a hurry, here.”

As one of the biggest men was shoving John towards the door, and he was trying (uselessly) to stay where he was, a shout rang out, and a gun went off. The man holding him let go in surprise. John grinned. He would recognize that shout anywhere—and he would give Sherlock all the help he could, if it took his last breath. His hands were still behind his back, but he hurled himself at Moriarty, who was still standing by the freezer door. He fell on top of Moriarty, who fell to the ground, and hit the back of his head on the corner of a shelf. 

John was struggling to get up, when he heard a clang. Someone must have closed the door behind him. He was trapped—helpless!—with his worst enemy beside him, and his best friend separated from him, possibly fighting a losing battle. He already felt himself wanting oxygen. He wished he weren’t a doctor—couldn’t predict the stages of asphyxiation from carbon dioxide poisoning. At least Moriarty wasn’t moving. He must have been knocked unconscious.     John looked for a handle, but this freezer did not seem to have one. He kicked at the door with all his remaining strength, and internally cursed the school district for not following safety regulations. He was exhausted, his hands were still cuffed behind his back, and despite his burning fury, he was cold—so, so cold! He slipped down by the door, and everything went black.

 

<|><|><|><|><|>

 

“Mycroft!”

“Sherlock, I can hear you perfectly. There is no reason to shout into your phone.”

“Mycroft I went to the Chinese restaurant where you lost track of him, and I have some more information. You must make this top priority, Mycroft. Moriarty wants to kill him, and you know it.”

“Yes, yes. Please, don’t get excited. Tell me what you deduced.”

“John was put into a delivery car that left the building between 10:30 and10:45. It was a long van, and said ‘Peking Cuisine’ on the side. 

“I have my people on it, Sherlock. I’ll tell you where the car went, and see if we can track it from there.”

Sherlock paced nervously. Ever since his brother said he’d lost all knowledge of John’s whereabouts, he’d been nearly panicked. He needed to find John before Moriarty killed him. 

His phone rang.

“We have traced him again. He is currently in a black sedan driving towards West Croydon.   I will not send police cars after it, as that would probably just encourage the murder of the hostage. You can follow in a taxi. I will give you directions.”

Sherlock relayed his brother’s instructions to the cabbie, and got out a block away from the primary school that the sedan had stopped in front of. He ran the rest of the way, making certain to avoid the attention of the thug standing by Moriarty’s car as he opened a side entrance with a lock pick and crept in.

When Sherlock got to the doorway of the canteen he was not surprised to see the thugs.    Six were more than he could handle, especially as he did not have a gun himself, so he decided to wait. But then he saw it—in the back by the freezer they had John, and one had a gun to his head. Moriarty was right next to him. 

And for one of the first times in his life he made a completely irrational, emotional decision.

He shouted to get the attention of the nearest man, only to duck behind a large bin on wheels to avoid a bullet. When he next looked out from behind the bin, John and Moriarty had disappeared, and the freezer was shut. 

There was no way for him to know what was going on inside that freezer. But there were several things he did know for certain. One, the air supply was limited, and two, Moriarty was a dangerous man.   On the other hand, he could be fairly certain that Moriarty did not have a gun, and that this was not part of Moriarty’s plan. He hoped John had had something to do with it.   But not to think about that…

Were those sirens? Yes.   A team of AFOs came running in, and the shooting began. Sherlock knew he should try to keep out of the line of fire, but instead, he ran through the halls, looking for an alternative route to the freezer. 

There was another of Moriarty’s men ahead of him, by the door that he knew he had to get through, so he sprinted up, grabbed the gun from the startled man, and shot him without compunction. The cooking area was completely deserted.   When he opened the freezer, he immediately recognized the fumes in the choking air. Dry ice!

“John!”

John was lying on the ground right near the door with his eyes closed. Sherlock grabbed his arms and managed to get him over his shoulder, before running to the nearest exit. When he deposited John on the ground, he saw that his breathing was very shallow. Sherlock searched back in his memory bank for something—anything!—that might help him in the situation, as he knew the ambulance had yet to arrive. He found a memory of a first aid class he’d sat in on once, thinking it might come in useful in his line of work. He’d never needed to call it up before. Now he forced himself to forget everything he ever learned about…germs…in the interest of giving mouth to mouth without losing his most recent meal.

“Come on John.   Breathe!”

Suddenly John coughed. He sat him up.

“John. Are you okay?”

“Sh-sherlock?” He coughed again. 

“Yes.   It’s me. Lestrade is in there, and they’ve got most of the men who were with Moriarty.”

“Moriarty! Where is he?”

“When I pulled you out of that freezer, he didn’t look like he’d be going anywhere soon.”

“You have to…”

“What? Save him? If the medics get there in time, they will. But I suspect it is too late for him already. Right now I’m concerned about you.”

“I’m fine Sherlock.”

“You are not fine. You were barely breathing.”

“Well, take me to the ambulance, and they’ll check me out. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Half an hour later the medics at the ambulance (with Sherlock’s help) had convinced John to come with them to the A & E to be checked out. They had also declared James Moriarty dead of head trauma and asphyxiation.

After the doctor gave John permission to go home, Sherlock took him to pick up his things from the hotel, and they finally began making their way back to Baker Street. They sat in silence for several long minutes, until John broke the silence.

“Good riddance to him. I’m glad to know he’s dead, Sherlock.” Sherlock thought John’s voice sounded unusually bitter.

“Would you say he wasn’t a nice man?”

“Sherlock , don’t be daft! He was as far from nice as it is possible to be. I…I hope you know that he things I said—Moriarty was forcing me to, or he said he’d kill you.”

Sherlock looked at John closely. “Yes, I wondered as much, once I realized you’d been taken.   But John…”

“Yes?”

“It wasn’t all an act, was it?”

John just turned away.

 

<|><|><|><|><|>

 

The next day began like any other since he’d entered into a flatshare with Sherlock. John woke up (perhaps a bit more stiff than usual, but nothing terrible), checked the shower for anything…interesting…and then showered, came downstairs, navigated his way around the mad scientist manifestation of Holmes (usually an early morning phenomenon), made tea and toast, and then took it to the sitting room to watch the morning news while he ate. There was one difference—Sherlock was working, but it was obvious to John that his mind was not on it. Before John finished his tea, Sherlock came and grabbed the remote off the arm of John’s chair before sitting down in his own.   He flipped around the channels for a few minutes, and then stared intently at the weather forecast before finally turning to speak.

“John. I’ve been considering, and I realize I can at times be a bit…thoughtless of you. I may not need the kind of emotional mollycoddling that you do, but I know that you need it, and you’re my friend and I should be able to adapt.”

“Sherlock.”

“I also recognize that I may at times expect you to do whatever I ask. I did not think you minded doing little things, as you are a man of action, but it is possible that I am sometimes a bit overbearing.”

“Sherlock.”

“I will make an effort from now on to show you that I appreciate…”

“SHERLOCK!”

“What?”

“Sherlock, I understand everything. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking as well. And…I never believed…that is, I never _really_ believed that you only wanted to use me…And…Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“You are a good man.”

John was too embarrassed to watch Sherlock closely, but he was pretty sure Sherlock felt a bit uncomfortable as well. He thought he’d just savor the moment, as it wasn’t likely to happen again. Besides, he wasn’t going to say anything else…Too many awkward conversations like this, and he’d be wishing for the old, sociopath Sherlock back. They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock, to John’s relief, un-muted the telly.

They had been watching for about twenty minutes, when Sherlock spoke up. “John, would you…” He coughed and got up suddenly. 

John watched him, puzzled for a few moments, as he walked into the kitchen and began opening cupboards randomly. He suddenly realized what was going on when he saw Sherlock take out the tea, and begin carefully reading the directions on the tin. Sherlock grabbed a measuring spoon off the table from between a beaker full of greenish liquid, and a collection of assorted molars, and wiped it on his trousers. As Sherlock started to take the lid off the tea John suddenly had a vision of the last thing Sherlock had used the spoon for—or at least the last thing he’d seen Sherlock use the spoon for.

He jumped out of his chair.

“Sherlock!”

“Hm?”

“I’ll do that.”


End file.
